αγαπώ - cherish
by nimuelsa
Summary: Where people don't die, magic doesn't exist save for love, and two people enjoy a peaceful time. (aka, shameless tomione without plot)


"Did you ever imagine someone like me in your life?" Hermione says, eyes intent on the Roahl Dahl novel, legs akimbo while she lounges as much as she can on the squat, fat armchair. Her hair is out, dozen of shades visible in the afternoon light. She looks fairly fantastic, in sweatpants and an old band tee. That's his totally biased opinion of the glorious woman in _his_ clothes.

The answer is immediate, even if her idle impatience suggests otherwise. ("I do _not_ gaze at you arbitrarily and be a sluggish oaf while conversing!" "Evidence suggests otherwise dear.")

"No." The answer is crisp, sharp, _quick_ and she nods, apparently satisfied with the occurrence of the reply. She turns a page. The air is oddly still in their apartment. Dust motes float in the air, tiny and inconsequential, and they smudge his glasses. Irritating.

They're held captive by their respective things. Hermione reads while Tom compiles together a scathing retort and perfect dissertation that would _trash_ Weasley's clumsy attempts at impressing his darling. Honestly, Weasley stating that _Socrates was actually dumb_ when in actuality he'd been one of the _most_ renowned philosophers of all time, and had only acted a fool to hasten his learning. Idiotic twit. Oh, and perhaps a poem of Weasley's other failings to tack onto noticeboards.

Hours pass, soft and silent, their quiet companionable rather than stifling and comfortable. The only sounds are dim, far-away and of Mozart's creations. Hermione finishes her novel and naps. Tom fiangles a graceful jab at both Weasley's inaccuracy and his brutishness, with perhaps, mayhap really, a correlation between them and his puffing redness and blustering ways that could really just be something not taken care of. He feels quite proud, and indulges himself in a poem of Weasley's various inadequacies.

(He may or may have not been composing a risqué poem that indicated the Weasley's inclinations, however exotic-seeming, would not catch him another partner, for however brief a period for quite a while before Butter-fingers Granger had snuck it off, sneaky thing she was. Shame. He'd even made them all rhyme to a 2-1-2 beat.)

"You're an idiot. I love you. Please make dinner." Fondness tinges her lovely, lovely voice and her eyes sparkle, the colour a chestnut brown that he feels a strange swell of affection for. She pokes at the corner of his smirk, no doubt at the elusive dimple. He rises to make dinner, it _is_ his night to make dinner, and it'd be delicious. He _is_ Tom Riddle, and he's good at what he does.

Or who, really, there wasn't much distinction. The very thought amuses him.

Hermione watches him intently. There was, perhaps, a reason. Maybe the reason was that he adored acting and putting on airs, and Hermione regularly watched them like she did that dreadful sitcom drama show every Tuesday. He'd like to think himself more entertaining.

She laughs as she plays multiple characters, a frail maiden struck by Eros' arrow for the scullery maid, the scullery maid who harboured a deep love for the maiden's brother, the brother himself who was a bumbling fool and the overwatching servant boy who saw their antics and spread about ludicrous tales from the scantest bit of information.

He bows as he serves up dinner. She giggles, eyes shining in the yellow-tinted light. He grins more than smirks, revelling in the simple joy of acting. It was, well, not the most ideal of locations, of culinary wonders or even something he'd imagined as a foolish child, but he wouldn't have traded these moments with the lovely being that'd led on him a chase, for the world as he would've coveted once.

He's _happy_. (for once)

Hermione smiles, and presses a kiss to his cheek, eyes twinkling. For once his mind doesn't immediately jump to another pair of eyes that twinkled with false benevolence, but simply revels in the attention she pours for him only.

He's in love, and it's okay.

 _i don't know. i wanted tom to be_ _ **happy**_ _, silly sap i am, and this was totally plotless, but idk, if you liked it, review, bc, i am trash for your words and i hope you have a wonderful day._

 _when was the last time you let go of something? was it painful or was it okay, was it something inevitable or what? elaborate~_


End file.
